


Auld Lang Syne

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:59:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim finds an old friend in Canada - on New Year's Eve</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This is another revised (fixed) holiday story posted for a friend (justmej who said it was one of her faves). Originally, it was the second half of a strange challenge. The first part of the challenge resulted in the story "Christmas Eve". The challenge was that lyrics from holiday songs were incorporated into both stories. This story was originally beta'd by Greenie and Melvin.
> 
> Originally published in 12/31/2000, revised in 2007.

 

 

 

 

_"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind?  
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?"_

 

God damn it. It was here just a minute ago…oh, thank God.

I pull out the wrinkled paper that represents my airline ticket and place it on the counter. The ticket agent takes it, works his magic and hands me a boarding pass.

"Gate 12, to your left and up the escalator."

"Thank you."

I move to my left, hike my overnight bag a bit higher up my shoulder and head toward the ramp and gate 12.

Ah, Canada. And soon to be "Ah, Cascade". Adios Vancouver, hello Cascade.

I flash my badge and the permit, sling my bag onto the conveyor belt then step through the metal detector. Nothing happens in spite of my weapon, thanks to the permit. The airline now knows they have an armed cop about to board one of their flights. As I walk toward my gate, I have to admit; it's been a long three days and damn, all I want to do is go home.

And maybe kill Simon Banks.

Why? Because here I am, ex-Detective of the Year, James Joseph Ellison, going home following a simple extradition. I'm not supposed to be the one who escorts criminals back to their home countries to face charges that took precedence over his minor infractions in Cascade. That's what rookies are for, low men - or women - on the totem pole, not senior officers.

Okay, the guy was considered very dangerous - and let's face it, his _minor_ infractions in Cascade included bombing two schools (after hours, thank God) and one hospital (the basement and morgue - night shift - two injured - several bodies killed - again). In Canada, Clayton Edney shot and killed two Mounties _and_ took two government employees hostage before he escaped, crossed the border and started in on us.

But we brought him down, which didn't stop Canada's request to extradite him.

Lucky them.

So who did Simon Banks pick for this plum job? This ripe assignment?

The Grinch of Major Crime - Detective Ellison, that's who.

Okay, I really don't blame the man. After all, did I have anyone to spend the holidays with, to cook for, to visit? Nope. Not with Dad and Steven in New York with Steven's new wife, Sharon, and her family.

And maybe there was another reason - maybe. Quoting Simon: "I either send you, thereby getting you the hell out of town, or you take your chances with the rest of the squad who think that now is a good time for a lynching."

Humph. Like I'm that bad? I don't think so.

Ah, I see you noticed the absence of a name, yes? Yes.

Blair Sandburg.

After all, if there were still a Blair Sandburg around, I'd be in Cascade right now and someone else would have been dubbed this year's Grinch and sent to Canada with Mr. Edney and that other schmuck would have been stuck in Canada for three days while the paperwork caught up and the wheels of justice ground down.

But - Sandburg's gone so I was sent.

And why is he gone? How about irreconcilable differences? Insurmountable tensions? A blonde named Alex? Or maybe a trust broken? Oh, and the small matter of a drowning.

So - no Blair. After three years, umpteen car chases, three crashed vehicles, serial killers, mad bombers, South American drug runners and their daughters, past lovers, weird cold medicines, more tests than you could count between now and the year 3000, fights, strong discussions, mixed up Tupperware, long hair everywhere, meditation, really weird music, telling him stuff I've never told anyone while _not_ being told anything by him, and - it's over. He's gone.

I am without partner…partnerless.

Things are back the way they were before.

BS. Before Sandburg.

And you know what? I'm loving it. Free as a bird, come and go as I please, no yapper in the corner, no tag-a-long, no constant nagging or ragging on me to "talk it out, Jim, that's what friends are all about", no long, lengthy stories that are supposed to illustrate a point - but never do. No sage, no drum music - no Blair.

No - Blair.

No Jim and Blair. Ellison and Sandburg.

You know, it's kind of funny because when I was married it was never Jim and Carolyn. Never. To anyone. But almost from day one - it was Jim and Blair. Or Jim and Sandburg. How does that figure when, for Christ's sake, I was _married_ to Carolyn, but Sandburg was only my partner, and unofficial at that. And yet…of course, one could argue that he lived with me longer than Carolyn.

Lived with me. _Lived_ with me. Lived _with_ me. Lived with _me_.

I'm going crazy and what the fuck did they just announce over the loudspeaker? Fog? All flights delayed?

Well, let this be a very sound _fuck_.

***

_"We two have run about the slopes, and picked the daisies fine;  
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot, since auld lang syne."_

 

The young man stepped out of his walk-up apartment, shut the door, locked it, pocketed the key, turned up the collar of the thick woolen jacket and stepped down onto the sidewalk.

The fog was settling in and the cold whipped through his lungs, bringing up a cough. He brought up a fisted hand to cover the sound and then moved up the street. He had a five block hike to work.

Christmas was over but the holiday trimmings were still up in shop windows, homes and street lamps, probably would be until after New Year's, but the man barely noticed. Many of the people he passed were in a rush to get home, it being the thirty-first of December.

He checked his watch and smiled. He was right on time.

He had no plans for later that night - other than to go to bed early - well, as early as the party at the store would allow. According to their boss's plan, they would close up at five and then have their own small celebration for the New Year. But that would be over early - by seven or so, meaning he'd be home by eight.

He had Monday off, but Tuesday and Wednesday promised to be hectic, what with year-end inventory.

He turned the corner and stopped in front of the quaint store front with a green sign that read, _Nooks of Books_. He took out a key ring, inserted a key, pushed open the sliding bars, then unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He immediately hit the lights and headed for the climate controls. He liked having the shop nice and warm before the rest of the staff arrived.

Once he'd turned up the thermostat and removed and hung up his jacket, he turned his attention to the coffee machines. Within minutes, the shop was filled with the aroma of good coffee.

He spent the next fifteen minutes working on a display table and was busy rearranging the books when the bell on the front door tinkled and Margaret Chao, a fellow employee, stepped inside.

"'Morning, Blair. God, but it's nice in here. And is that hazelnut I smell?"

"Yep. Thought we'd try something new today."

"Absolutely divine." She went into the back room to hang up her coat, then came back out and opened the register. "Andy's going to be late, did he tell you yesterday?"

"Yes. But it's not unexpected."

Margaret chuckled. "No, I guess it isn't. Another new boyfriend for our Andy, so of course that translates into being late."

"You said it, not me."

"Is Jeffrey coming in before the party?"

Blair wiped his hands on his jeans, stepped back from the table and gave a critical eye to the display as he shook his head. "Nope, unless he decides to check in on us before the party, which means it's just going to be you, me and half of Andy."

"Oh, I like that - _half of Andy_. I suppose, being the owner, Jeffrey's allowed to stay home. After all, he has such wonderful people working for him."

"Too true, and you make sure and tell him that tonight, you hear?"

Margaret finished doing her morning count and closed the register, then picked up several new magazines and, moving through the shop, began to place them strategically around the store.

Nooks of Books was the kind of bookstore that was a rarity in big cities. A small, family-type business with big, comfortable chairs for reading, several worktables for studying, three coffee stations and good reading lamps spread throughout. Jeffrey Treder wanted it to be the kind of place people could come and relax, read before purchasing, browse, and feel like they were home. He also made it a point to surrounded himself with people who really knew books.

Every member of his staff could find any book any customer needed. They knew their authors, subject matter, and each one specialized in one or more categories of fiction and/or non-fiction.

For Margaret, a forty year old mother of two, it was mysteries, be it fiction or true crime, and she minored in science fiction and fantasy. For Andy Pepper, a recent college graduate, it was the classics and, surprisingly enough, romance novels. He considered his minor to be horror novels and self-help books, as well as how-to books. And for the newest member, and recently promoted store manager, Blair Sandburg, it was everything and anything under the sun with heavy leanings toward archaeology, anthropology and other sciences. Oh, and explorers. Very heavy on explorers. Like Sir Richard Burton.

At ten sharp, Blair walked to the front window and flipped up the Open sign.

It was official. Nooks of Books was open for business.

***

Okay, three hours and still all flights delayed.

To quote a one-time best friend, "This sucks."

"Like I need to be stuck in an airport on New Year's Eve? Like I need to be stuck with _me_ and my thoughts?" Jim muttered under his breath.

All right, this called for a trip to the gift store and another magazine or two, then maybe a giant pretzel with nacho cheese sauce and a beer.

Ain't freedom is great?

***

"We have several biographies on Robbie Burns but the one I'd recommend is by James MacKay. You might also be interested in the Complete Poetical Works by the same author."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Sandburg. That sounds just like what I'm looking for. And where..."

"Third aisle over, Mrs. Cobb. Second shelf from the top."

"Thank you, and Happy New Year."

Blair smiled and nodded as the matronly Mrs. Cobb headed for the biography section of the book store. He checked his watch and sighed. Four more hours.

"Blair, you haven't taken your lunch break. Now that Andy's here, why not duck into the back room and grab a bite? We can hold down the fort."

Blair looked around the store and, satisfied that none of the currently happy customers would need anything from him, gave Margaret a grin. "Okay, back in thirty. Yell if you need anything."

"We will. Go, munch, enjoy."

He stepped into the stock room and took a seat at the small table set up for breaks. For a moment he just enjoyed the feel of sitting, of being off his feet. He wasn't really hungry but he'd found, as the day progressed and 2001 drew ever closer, another bout of depression settling in - and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide it. He needed this break, needed to give himself a little pep-talk.

He reached over to the small refrigerator, pulled out an ice tea, opened the bottle absently and took a long sip before setting it down and wiping his mouth.

How many months now? Six? Eight? They'd all run together, but he'd bet, based on how he felt, it was closer to eight.

Eight months since he'd left Cascade.

Left - Jim.

Eight months since he'd destroyed his life and dissertation. Eight months since leaving Rainier, his doctorate, his friends and...Jim. But it had been a good choice, the right choice.

Oh, he knew he could have stayed and, with a great deal of difficulty, changed his doctorate subject, but honestly, he hadn't been able to come up with one single reason why he should. Eight months ago, his only real interest had been....

Yeah, right.

For the hundredth time he wondered if he should have stayed, should have fought harder to get Jim to talk, or at least, stay and keep the status quo while hoping for the best. But damn, Jim's reluctance to talk, combined with his pretense that everything was back to normal, had been more than Blair could handle. Too much had happened, too much that no one had been willing to talk about. And damn it, he'd _needed_ to talk. Had wanted to share his feelings, but reason had prevailed. After all, Jim had been struggling with his emotions regarding Alex, so any confessions of love on Blair's part would have fallen on deaf ears. Instead, he'd come to see Megan's discovery of Jim's gift to be a sign that it was time for him to leave. Megan could take care of Jim now.

After five weeks of strange silences, eyes drifting away, much needed touches absent - he'd pulled out of the doctorate program, destroyed his notes, tapes, and everything Sentinel, and then told Jim that he was transferring to another university. Whopper of a lie but told with a normal heartbeat, quiet breathing and a steadfast gaze.

Jim never blinked. Never faltered. "Okay, understood, Sandburg. You have to think of your career, I get that. No problem."

And so, here he was, managing a bookstore, leading a quiet life without stress, absolutely no danger, no classes, papers or tests. No Simon, Joel, or Megan.

And no Jim

Or loft.

As he looked back now, he kind of thought that maybe Jim had been right all those months ago when he'd laughingly compared himself to Frankenstein's monster - and thus Blair - to Dr. Frankenstein, the mad scientist.

But any way you sliced it, this mad scientist missed his Frankenstein.

Blair rubbed his eyes hard, then ran a trembling hand over his jaw. He'd been so goddamned stupid. But - damn it, he was a scientist and Alex was another sentinel - and it wasn't as if he _hadn't_ tried to tell Jim about her, he had.

_But you were so wrapped up in your find that you failed to notice his pain._

Was there some cosmic reason that he had to have a loud conscience? He always thought Pinocchio should have swatted that Jiminy Cricket bug. With a large book.

On the other hand, truth was truth even when spoken by a bug, and he _had_ been wrapped up in Alex, so excited and puzzled and worried that he'd missed Jim's pain and strange behavior. Well, not _missed_ exactly, but certainly misinterpreted it, hence, once the chips had fallen, Blair hadn't been able to assist Jim in picking them up. But in his own way, Jim had exacted an unintentional punishment. Blair had been forced to watch Jim and Alex. Watch him kiss her, care about her, and feel the devastation when her mind was destroyed. And he, Blair Sandburg, the scientist and ex-child prodigy, had been able to do nothing for his partner. Could do nothing but hurt in his own love for Jim.

Surely he'd paid enough by now? Maybe that's what he should have said to Jim.

"Hey, you can forgive me now. I drowned and, may I say, yuck, don't try it. Then I had to watch you kiss Alex on the beach, which was almost as bad, _no,_ definitely worse than drowning, and then I had to watch you kiss her again in the Temple right before losing her. Haven't I paid enough for my mistakes? Can't we go on? Be best buds again?"

Well, okay - Jim paid pretty heavily too, so that kind of muted his own misery, and you can't really use that to mitigate your own mistakes, you know? Kind of defeats the purpose. So that left him where, exactly?

In Nooks of Books, with lungs that might never heal and a heart that's skipped town.

Blair got up, put the unfinished tea back in the fridge, and returned to the store.

***

Swell. Now _every_ flight is canceled. So what do I do? God damn it to hell and back. Stuck in Vancouver on New Year's Eve - in the airport of the dead. Well, I can tell you this much: James Joseph Ellison is _not_ sleeping in this fucking airport and the airline _will_ put me up in a hotel. So there.

But I'm not moving. Can't move. Because all I can see is what I've been seeing for the last eight months. Blair's face.

Always Blair's face.

Eyes wide and innocent, dark circles ringing the tender flesh below the eyelashes, lips moving but the words hitting sensitive ears too many seconds after they'd been spoken--

_"...so I'm transferring back East, Jim. I think it's best, don't you? And yeah, I've changed my subject matter so, to quote Megan, 'No worries, mate."_

_"Ah, no, Jim, I see no reason to make a fuss, to say good-bye to anyone. Best I just go. Better for all concerned, you know? Good thing I never really unpacked all my stuff, eh?"_

That wry smile, the eyes hiding behind so much loose hair, hiding the pain that I can so clearly see now - eight months later.

And they call me a Sentinel.

Blair called me a Sentinel. A guardian. Protector of the fucking tribe. Well, fuck the tribe. Where are they now? What about the man behind the sentinel? Who protects him? Who protects him from the sentinel? Who cherishes him? Holds him? Understands him? Accepts him? Who loves this man standing guard over the sentinel?

The answer is exactly the same as it's been for eight months; Jim Ellison does. Or should. Or would - if given another chance.

But chances are given to others, not to me.

I can feel the hot burning liquid behind my eyes and I rub them hard, then stroke a trembling hand over my jaw.

God, why didn't I just talk to him? Why didn't we sit down and hash it out? Why couldn't I have just said the fucking words? Why didn't I shake some sense into him when he was spewing out that garbage about transferring?  
Sense.

That's funny, Ellison. You're a laugh a minute.

So. I'm evidently spending the night in Vancouver. Better call Simon.

***

One more hour.

Blair held back a yawn and continued to leaf through the new Publishers Digest. The store was almost empty, with only two customers reading quietly in their respective corners. Andy was doing some non-essential rearranging of shelves, trying to keep busy until they could officially close and indulge in their small party while Margaret busied herself in the back by preparing a few edible surprises.

Jeffrey had popped in about an hour ago to reassure everyone that he'd be back just before closing and, "…you'd all better have healthy appetites."

Naomi had called to wish him a Happy New Year and wouldn't he please join her in New Orleans? Somehow she couldn't get it around her mind that he had a job and couldn't just take off any time he wanted, although he'd love to be in the Big Easy for New Year's. For one thing - it was a heck of a lot warmer and who could beat the holiday in New Orleans? Could anything be better?

Yes - New Year's in Cascade, at 852 Prospect, to be more specific.

***

"He wants what?"

_"You heard me, Ellison. And since you're now stuck in Vancouver, would you mind?"_

What could I say to my Captain?

"Sure, no problem, Simon."

_"I wouldn't ask if I hadn't made twenty different phone calls here in Cascade, and the surrounding towns, with no luck."_

I could say something about doing your son's Christmas shopping a bit earlier - like _before_ Christmas, but since Daryl spent the holiday with his mother and was spending New Year's with his dad, they were having a second Christmas - for New Year's. I was supposed to be there - but guess what?

"Like I said, Simon, no problemo. I'll make a few calls from my hotel room and pick it up if I find it."

_"Think you'll get out tomorrow?"_

"Sure, but I'll call you when I have times and flight number. If we're lucky, it'll be between games - or at least during half-time."

_"Damn straight, Jim. Those are the only times I'd even consider leaving the house to pick you up!"_

"Hey, just remember who's responsible for pulling your fat from the fire."

_" If you find it."_

"Have no fear - Ellison's on the case."

I smile in response to the rumble that represents his laugh and, with some regret on my part, we say our good-byes, but not before he reminds me to watch my expense account. Naturally I can't resist giving him a full description of the lobster dinner I plan to devour - all on the city's expense. I can almost see him rolling his eyes.

We hang up and, with a glance around me, I say a mental good-bye to the airport and head over to the Airport Hilton, and my lonely room for the night.

And you know what? I think I _will_ have lobster for dinner. _And_ champagne.

But first, I'll let my fingers do the walking so I can find that last minute gift for Simon so he can make Daryl happy.

***

"Hey, Blair, do we have something called, Genes, Peoples and Languages?"

Blair glanced up from his work at the coffee station near the door and frowned as his mind's eye reviewed the anthropology section of the bookstore. Mentally he spotted it and his face cleared. "Yep, one copy left."

Margaret gave him the thumbs up sign and went back to the phone. "Yes sir, we have one copy left. Would you like me to hold it for you? Oh? Well, we close in a few min - oh, you can? Yes, we're on the corner of Seventh and Crimson. All right, we'll see you in a few minutes." She placed the receiver back into its old fashioned cradle. "Looks like we'll have a last minute customer, after all, Blair. Some guy is coming to pick that book up. Can you grab it from the back?"

"Sure." He finished putting the supplies away and then headed to the rear of the shop. He was halfway there when the bell over the door tinkled merrily. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Hey, Jeffrey, great timing."

"Ha, ha, Sandburg - and could someone give me a hand, like - _Andy_?"

Jeffrey Treder's arms were full and, as Andy rushed around the corner to help, the large man jerked his head toward the Mercedes parked out front. "More in the car, Andy. Would you?"

"Got it, boss."

There were no customers left in the store and, with only minutes left to closing, Jeff started to set out the spread. Gesturing at the front display, he said, "Mags, let's clear that table for the food. We'll have the party right out here where it's comfortable - instead of the back room."

Nodding enthusiastically, she hurried over to the table and started to remove the books. She piled them on the counter as the smells wafting up from the box their boss had brought in caused her stomach to rumble. She hurried into the back room for the plates, cups and tablecloth she'd purchased earlier and returned just as Andy walked in with the rest of the goodies. Minutes later, the table was set and, after a few instructions from Jeff, enticing foods had been spread from one end of the table to the other.

"Be careful with that, Andy - that's the champagne," Jeff reminded as Andy took two bottles from the last bag.

"Nothing is safer with me than alcohol, boss. You know that. Especially…" he read the labels and whistled before finishing, "when it's Cristal. Man, we're going to have some party!"

Blair's eyebrows rose as he got his first look at everything. He set the requested book down and added his own whistle to Andy's. "Thank God I'm walking home, Jeff."

***

Man, this is colder than home. And foggy as hell too. Nothing like trying to find some dumb bookstore in the fog - even for a sentinel. Okay, so a cab.  
I'll hail a cab, they'll drive me to the shop, I'll purchase the book and be back in my room ordering room service by six. Maybe a little turf with my surf?

Oh, yeah.

And why do all cabbies chew gum? And god, wouldn't you know - he's got the radio on and _that_ song is playing. I hate  Auld Lang Syne. Me and Billy Crystal. I mean, what the fuck do those lyrics mean anyway?

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne?_

In a fucking word - yes. Remembering days of auld lang syne only serves to make a man miserable. Much better to repress them. Stuff them down so deep - not even Blair Sandburg could dredge them up.

On the other hand - how would I stay sane if I didn't have my memories of Blair? That's all that's kept me going - which is strange in and of itself. The memories should make things worse, not better. All right, they don't necessarily make things better - just bearable.

Old acquaintance. Is that what Blair is to me now? And old acquaintance? Were our times together - my days of auld lang syne?

Days gone past and now Blair joins the long list of others I've lost.

At least there's a difference this time. For one thing, he's still alive. For another, I let it happen. I had control, choices. I couldn't prevent the chopper from going down in Peru. Couldn't help Lila or Alex, but I could have stopped Blair from leaving, with just a few words.

I think.

I _think_ a few choice words would have worked. Maybe something like, "I'm sorry, Blair. We're in this thing together and we can work it out. Oh, and by the way, I'm madly, crazily in love with you, too."

God, I'd have loved to have seen his face if I'd had the cajones to say all that. Hell, I'd have loved to have seen my face.

I love you, Chief. I love you.

An old acquaintance now and, if I were to see him, say tonight, is that what I'd be to him? Just an old acquaintance? Would we do like the song suggests and share a cup of kindness for Auld Lang Syne? Or would I--

"Here's the shop, sir."

"Thanks, and would you wait, I'll only be a moment."

"Sure, but they look closed."

Shit, he's right. I'm too late. Except…I can see the lights between the blinds, the people moving around and yeah, of course I can hear the music and smell the food. Therefore, maybe they'll take pity on me and let me in.

"I'm getting out anyway, maybe they'll open for me. Just hang loose and keep the meter running."

"Hey, you're the boss."

I get out and, for some reason, I'm actually anxious that they won't let me in. Anxious. Afraid. As if getting inside is the most important thing in the world to me, versus getting a book for Daryl. Weird.

***

Margaret set her glass on the counter and spotted the book she'd asked Blair to grab. Holding it up, she said, "Guess we can put this back, Blair?"

"Let's hold it until Friday."

"Okay, I'll stick it under the counter."

Blair took another crab puff and, before popping it into his mouth, asked, "Better put his name on it. He did leave a name, right?"

"Nope, no name."

"Well, let me take it into the back room and put it with the other holds. I need to add those anyway," he said, indicating several other books that had been requested for pick-up after the holiday.

Grabbing another delicious crab puff, he picked up the book and walked into the back room.

Just as the door shut behind him, someone knocked on the front door.

Margaret looked at Andy, who looked at Jeffrey, who shrugged and said, "Let 'em knock. we're closed."

The knocking stopped but was only replaced by rapping on the window.

"Jeffrey, can't we…I mean, it might be the guy who was trying to get here before we closed," Margaret pleaded.

"All right, go ahead, see who it is."

Margaret smiled and, key in hand, walked to the front door, unlocked it, and poked her head out. "I'm afraid we're closed."

"I'm the guy who called about the book? The fog was pretty thick and it took longer than I thought. I catch a plane home tomorrow and this is a belated Christmas present. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me--"

"Of course, please come in. We're just having a small New Year's party. I'll get that book for you right away."

Margaret stepped aside and the tall, good-looking man entered with a swirl of fog and cold following him. After shutting the door against the weather, she hurried to the counter. "We just put it in the back room, so hang on a moment and I'll get it."

"Thank you."

The handsome customer with the pale blue eyes glanced at the other two men and said apologetically, "I'm really grateful but sorry for interrupting your party."

"Please, don't give it another thought. Glad we were still here to help." Jeff held out his hand. "I'm the owner, by the way. Jeffrey Treder."

"Jim Ellison and, again, thank you."

Jeff waved off the thank you, poured some champagne and offered it to the tall man. "Enjoy and Happy New Year, Mr. Ellison."

***

"Blair, the man for that Genes book is here. You got it handy?"

Blair was at the table scribbling names on pink cards and slipping the cards under rubber bands that held stacks of books together. At Margaret's words, he reached over, lifted the large tome and handed it to Margaret. "Here you go."

Taking it from him, she smiled and said, "I hope you're planning on rejoining the party because Andy's head over heels again."

"I'll be out in a minute - if I get this done now, it's one less thing to do later. And how can he be in love again?"

Margaret hefted the book in the air. "You'd have to see the guy picking this up. He's a dream, Blair. An absolute dream."

"Sounds yummy. Now maybe you'd better get that out there, uh?"

"Spoilsport. Hurry up yourself or all the crab puffs will be gone."

Blair had bent his head back down to his task and, laughing lightly, waved her out.

***

Sipping the very nice champagne, Jim looked around and had to admit that the bookstore was very nice. Homey, even. Something Blair would have--

Nope, no more thoughts of Blair. Not tonight. Besides, here comes the clerk with the book.

"Here you go, sir. That will be twenty-six ninety-five."

She set the book down and, as I pull the money from my wallet, I realize something is very familiar. A scent? I look at the book and catch myself smiling. It's definitely something Blair would have read, would have even owned. But a strange choice for Daryl, a young man who planned to become a cop just like his old man.

Ah, now I know why the scent is so comfortable. Books, stale coffee, the smell of old leather, just like his office and dining room used to smell when littered with Blair's school work.

Damn, I need to stop my brain. But it's too late - I can already feel the need for Blair building inside. Right, so my own bottle of the bubbly when I get back to the hotel, and I'll drown the damn need. Except....

"Do you happen to have any books on Sir Richard Burton - the explorer, not the actor?"

Margaret held off ringing up the sale as she nodded. "I'm sure we do, but let me check with--"

"No, no, how stupid. You're closed. Forget I asked. Let me get out of your hair."

God, I am an idiot. They're closed, having a private party and here I am asking about--

"It's no problem, really. Let me just--"

"No, please, forget I asked. Just bag the book and I'll leave you to your party."

Thank god, she's doing it. Like I need a book on Sir Richard Burton? Let me just get out of here, get to my hotel, to the mini-fridge, those tiny bottles of liquor, and solitude.

***

Blair finished the last of the requests and, with a sigh, walked back out into the shop. As he stepped up behind Margaret, the front door was just shutting.

"You just missed him."

"Yeah, Andy, I know, and you're in love again."

"Dear boy, our Andy is always falling in love."

"Ah, come on, boss. Can I help it if I'd hump a table leg?"

Blair had been reaching for his drink when Andy made the table leg remark.

His hand froze.

***

What was that? I've had my senses down since the airport, dials reading four, which for me is normal. But now, something catches my ear, a word or phrase, as I step away from the shop door.  
  
Table leg - yeah, table leg.  
  
I don't know why, but the need to bump my dials up all of a sudden hits me hard. Maybe it's the reminder of Blair - the table leg remark bringing back a memory....  
  
In any case, I need to hear what's going on inside.  
  
***  
  
"Well, Andy, that gorgeous hunk that just left is a table leg _I'd_ hump in two seconds flat," Margaret teased.  
  
Andy laughed and tossed a cracker at her while shooting a half humorous look at his boss, who was staring at his manager.  
  
"Hey, kid, you okay?"  
  
Blair glanced up, ripping his mind from the past. "Sure, fine. Just - thinking of something, that's all."  
  
Margaret caught the tossed cracker but before eating it, asked, "Blair, honey, tell me about Sir Richard Burton, the explorer, not the actor."  
  
Sandburg whirled around, his face paling. "Why would you ask that, Margaret?"  
  
Puzzled and concerned, she answered, "That guy, the hunk, he asked about any books we might have. It was cute the way he said, _'the explorer, not the actor'_ like he thought I'd direct him to the film section."  
  
Blair stood, hand gripping the edge of the table. "He _said_ that? Those _exact_ words?"  
  
"I could make that up? And what the heck is wrong?"  
  
But Blair wasn't listening as he ran to the front door. He fumbled with his key and the lock and, as his fingers closed over the knob, someone knocked.  
  
***  
  
I should leave. Except....  
  
 _His voice_.  
  
The words scream in my head, my ears ringing with a voice I haven't heard in months. Now I can hear him running toward the door… Okay, I know my senses have been blinking on and off for months, but I know it's him and that leaves me only one choice - so I raise my hand and bring it back down against the glass….  
  
***  
  
The knob slid away from his sweaty hand, but he finally captured it again, turned it and the door swung open. And there, in the cold and fog is….  
  
"Jim."  
  
***  
  
"Blair."  
  
That's all I can say as I stare at him, at my 'old acquaintance'. As I stare into the eyes of my soul.  
  
He's blinking up at me and it's kind of endearing, not that I'd say that to his face. I let my eyes drink him in - and that's when I notice his hair.  
  
He's cut it.  
  
Blair's cut his hair.  
  
"You cut your hair."  
  
They hand out college degrees for that kind of brilliance.  
  
He runs nervous fingers through the short curls that linger around his ear, the ear with the two silver hoops threaded through it; the earrings he hadn't worn for months before he left. He still hasn't spoken and, while he's still unconsciously fiddling with his hair, his eyes start roaming over me the way a sports car takes to the highway.  
  
" _You_ ordered the book?"  
  
Ah, he speaks - and in a voice that is like rich, thick maple syrup as it's poured over lonely, dry pancakes. I should be able to come up with a better metaphor for his voice but you know, I really love maple syrup.  
  
"Yeah, for Daryl. My flight was canceled due to fog so I called Simon to let him know I'd be late returning. As it happened, he was having trouble finding the book in Cascade and asked me to see if I could get lucky. Guess I did, didn't I?"  
  
Totally inane conversation.  
  
"We're kind of famous in Vancouver for having hard to find books."  
  
"I called five other stores before this one."  
  
Could this conversation get any - weirder?  
  
"So - how is Simon?"  
  
"Fine, just fine. Everyone's fine. You?"  
  
"Fine." He jerks his head back at the store and adds, "Working and  
partying."  
  
"Yeah, I noticed the working part. What happened to attending a university? Or did you transfer to the UBC?"  
  
Well, what do you know, my old buddy has the grace to blush.  
  
"I, uh, that was, like, you know, a slight exaggeration - maybe."  
  
"Yeah, so I gather."  
  
His gaze finally leave me as he drops his head down a bit and I miss his eyes already.  
  
"So, I think Daryl will enjoy the book. Margaret mentioned that you were interested in books about Burton?"  
  
Now I'm the one blinking. What's this guy's IQ again?  
  
"No, Blair, not really. But I'd been thinking about you and I wanted to somehow know more about you and it struck me while I was standing by the counter that reading about Burton might just help."  
  
During my little speech I've watched his eyes widen and his mouth is open again.  
  
"You were _thinking_ about me?"  
  
"Well, duh, Einstein. Of course, not all that much since you left Cascade, only about 24/7. But nothing earth shattering. Just the usual. Like how stupid could I be and how a few well chosen words might have kept you with me, you know, things like that."  
  
"Yeah, I see. Things like that."  
  
His co-workers are watching us with an almost fanatical interest. Much like I suspect a vampire who'd not eaten in days might look at a bleeding man. I wave my fingers at them and the young guy waves back and winks. I turn my attention back to Sandburg, and find the current expression on his face so powerful, it nearly drives me to my knees.  
  
I'd like to be able to explain it. How that look of complete and utter confusion, raw emotion and pain, how that spark of hope flickering behind his puzzled gaze pierced me to the core.  
  
But I think I'm zoning.  
  
***  
  
"Well, you haven't done that in awhile. Or have you?"  
  
I'm shaking my head like I have fleas in my ears because damn it, I zoned.  
  
"Jim, have you? Zoned recently?"  
  
"No, no, no zones."  
  
He's behind me, rubbing my shoulders and speaking softly because, while the zone itself is no big deal, when I go deep, it's rough coming back. And in the past it's usually been something violent that brought me out. Like being tackled and run over by a trash truck - for instance.  
  
I really shouldn't be giving into this - not now, not here. But damn, his fingers feel like nirvana and I really don't care who's watching. I open my eyes and discover that I'm not in the store - exactly. I'm in a small - back room?  
  
"Sandburg, where--"  
  
"I guided you in here, the stock room. Didn't think you'd really want the others to see. They've gone home, by the way."  
  
His fingers continued to knead the muscles around my neck, moving down to ease the tension across my shoulders and - at this precise moment of supreme happiness - I feel like a total shit.  
  
"God, I'm sorry, Sandburg. You were having a nice--"  
  
"They had their own parties to attend, don't worry. What you saw was just a small celebration - the owner's idea. It's after six now."  
  
My eyes slide shut again as his voice drifts over me, soothing, reaching into heavily guarded crevices and spreading warmly throughout my now mushy insides. I'm one big, soggy pancake with the urge to beg Blair to eat me.  
  
"Have your senses been okay, Jim?"  
  
Shit, I have to answer him. Someone should tell him that soggy pancakes can't talk.  
  
"Fine, dandy - everything's been top notch," I manage to mumble and, by the way, lie like a rug.  
  
"Good."  
  
Shit, he's taken those magic fingers and accompanying warmth away - and - to top it off, he's shut up. I suppose I should open my eyes - which I do - to find him sitting opposite me and just looking. And waiting, but with no expectations, no hope visible in his eyes.  
  
"So," I say brilliantly.  
  
He's still just looking.  
  
"Would there be a nice cozy, quiet spot nearby, where we could slip in and maybe get a drink?"  
  
One eyebrow rises in surprise, but his eyes still reveal nothing. They're definitely the windows to his soul, but me, a sentinel, can't see a goddamned thing. Blair's eyes have always told me all I'd ever needed to know - and ignore. But not tonight. Maybe never again.  
  
"For auld lang syne, Jim?"  
  
Fuck.  
  
I need to know what he's thinking - I need a clue - anything. "Yeah, two buddies - old times. New Year's Eve."  
  
He stands and turns away from me and, for the first time, I notice his clothing. Black jeans and a black, long-sleeved turtleneck sweater, tucked in, which surprises me. Mr. Seven Layers, always wearing baggy pants and shirts, but now, tight jeans and a tucked in sweater? He's a bit thinner than I remember, but it looks good on him. I can see the muscles beneath the material, the cords of strength in his arms, thanks to pushed up sleeves.  
  
"Sorry Jim, but being that it _is_ New Year's Eve, I have plans. In fact," his voice is low, almost without inflection, "I'm going to be late."  
  
God, could I be any more dim? Of course Blair Sandburg has plans. Probably a very hot date; a real beauty with legs up to her neck.  
  
"Sorry. Should have realized," I say lamely. I join him and together we walk back into the main room of the store. Blair picks something up, then guides me to the front door and unlocks it. He swings it open and steps aside.  
  
"It's been good seeing you again."  
  
That's it? _"It's been good seeing you again"_?  
  
"Yeah, you too, Sandburg."  
  
This just keeps getting better and better. And he hasn't even asked me why I zoned.  
  
"Give my best to Simon and Daryl and the rest of the gang…oh, and don't forget this." He hands me the bag with Daryl's book.  
  
"Yeah, can't forget that. Simon would kill me."  
  
Blair smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I step out and thank God, the cab is still there. I turn back. "Well, I'll see you around." I hold out my hand and he takes it. We shake just like two grown up men. Two old friends.  
  
I let his hand slip away and climb into the cab. I direct the cabbie back to the hotel and as we pull away, I glance back. Blair's already inside and the door is closed.  
  
I let the cab get about two blocks down the street and then tell him to pull over. I pay him, grab the package with Daryl's book and let him leave. It's cold and the fog is just as thick as earlier but I can see the store so I wait. I haven't seen the Volvo so I'm taking a chance that wherever he lives, it's within walking distance.  
  
***  
  
Blair walked to the counter where he took a moment to lean against the oak frame for support.  
  
A drink. Jim wanted to go someplace for a drink. For auld lang syne. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to remember the lyrics… Oh, yeah, got it now.  
  
"We'll take a cup o' kindness yet for auld lang syne," he sang softly.  
  
So that was it. The moment he'd been dreaming about had finally happened - and all Jim wanted was for two old buddies to have a couple of drinks, maybe share a few laughs.  
  
Blair spread his hands across the smooth surface and dropped his head, then knocked it against the wood - three times.  
  
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.  
  
He straightened and rubbed his forehead. What a shock to discover that stupid hurt.  
  
A bit dazed, he glanced around him and realized that there was nothing for him to do but grab his jacket, turn off the heater and lights and - head home.  
  
He did just that.  
  
Although hari-kari did enter his mind.  
  
***  
  
I feel like a fruitcake. I'm standing in the fog, in the shadows, hiding from a streetlamp and waiting for Blair to show. Sam Spade without the trench coat and upturned collar.  
  
Here he comes - and I was right - he's walking. No car. So what do I do if he walks a block to the Volvo and drives off?  
  
Hari-kari sounds good.  
  
But since he's still walking - I follow - and why? Because I don't _know_ if he was lying and I'm praying that he was. I used to know, but not any more.  
  
And if he _was_ lying - maybe I can ask for a do over.  
  
***  
  
The fog showed no sign of lifting. Blair stuffed his hands in his pockets and, with head down, kept walking. The streets were quiet, thanks to the weather putting quite a damper on street parties. Maybe the drunks would be forced to stay home.  
  
As he traversed Walker Avenue something changed. The air seemed to move around him differently…or maybe....  
  
Blair stopped, cocked his head, listened, but heard absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
***  
  
He stopped. Why? I know he can't hear me or see me.  
  
***  
  
Blair lifted his head and smiled. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Shaking his head, he said, "Jim, get your butt over here."  
  
  
***  
  
I've been ratted out; discovered. I'm a fool, but that doesn't stop me from checking in both directions even though I know damn well it's clear, then jogging cross the street to cover the two blocks between us in record time.  
  
As I come alongside, he says, even though he damn well knows the answer, "Are you following me?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Were you planning on following me wherever I go?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
His eyes narrow. "You weren't sure about the date thing, were you?"  
  
I shrug. "Couldn't tell."  
  
"That must have rattled you."  
  
Smiling, I say, "Actually, I wanted to check her out - if there was one. That old protective instinct just kind of kicked in since you don't have the best track record with women."  
  
His expression is a killer. Eyes pop wide, jaw drops open and his hands fly helplessly into the air. "My track record? _My_ track record?" He jabs a finger into my chest and says, "You, my man, are the one with the female problem, not me."  
  
Another elegant shrug. "Yeah, that's why I switched to men - exclusively."  
  
Oh, I've got him now. He looks like a carp out of water. Mouth open, shut, open, shut.  
  
"Of course," I go on proudly, "my track record with men hasn't been any better."  
  
He's blinking again, rapidly. God, he looks so cute. I think I've just been given my do over.  
  
He swallows hard, then clears his throat. "Well, maybe you haven't tried the right woman - or - man."  
  
"I could probably use some help. Maybe you'd be willing to offer up a few suggestions?"  
  
"What, You want _me_ to find you a date?"  
  
I could let this go on...but in truth, I'm dying here. I know just where he belongs and I long to put him there. To end this farce. He knew I was behind him. Two fucking blocks away and he _knew_. They don't pay me the big detective bucks for nothing.  
  
Blair loves me.  
  
"No," I say with the utmost sincerity. "But you could _be_ my date. And no, I don't want to have just a drink with you or share old times or catch up or ask what's new. I want to climb inside you, I want you to come home, or I'll move here, I want to go to which ever is closer, your place, my hotel, a back alley and I want to strip you naked and then--"  
  
Okay, I might have gone just a bit too far. He just took two steps - backwards.  
  
Yep, went too far.  
  
Or not. Because now he's stepping forward and right into my space - and he just grabbed my coat lapels and now he's pulling me toward him.  
  
When my face is mere centimeters from his, he hisses out, "My place is closer and it's too damn cold for an alley."  
  
I'm down with that.  
  
We don't run to his place - exactly - but I would call it a very brisk jog.  
  
Okay - we ran.  
  
***  
  
No talking, no clearing the air, just cleaning out the pipes - so to speak.  
  
Blair nearly broke down his front door, one hand pushing while his left hand hauled me inside. He kicked the door shut and slammed me up against the wall. Felt good too.  
  
He had to hike himself up a bit, stretch his body and yank me down, but when he finally got my face next to his, and I'm pretty damn certain he's going to kiss me, he says, "You are such a dick."  
  
What can I say? When a man's right, he's right.  
  
"You are the biggest dickhead in the--"  
  
I duck my head and grin as I interrupt him. "Not really, but it is a nice size. I think you'll appreciate it."  
  
His left hand leaves my shirt and slides downward. When he reaches his goal, he grins. "Um, not so great, but no one has ever accused me of being a size queen."  
  
And that's it. We're suddenly laughing and stripping and I'm moving him backward, my eyes fastened on his, our laughter swirling around us like the fog of only minutes ago. I'm trying to work his zipper and check _his_ dick out when I realize - no bed.  
  
"Mmm, Chief? Bed?"  
  
He's busy with my chest, with pushing aside material and lapping at my left nipple, but he manages to mumble, "Wall, in the wall, just keep going backwards."  
  
"You have a Murphy bed?" I squeak out.  
  
"Yes, now shut up and keep moving."  
  
Right.  
  
The passion is put on hold just long enough for Blair to reach back and pull on a cord and, seconds later, the bed drops down. Rumpled of course. Unmade of course. But hey, at least he put it up.  
  
"Quick, we only have a few seconds," he pants as he pushes me down. He throws himself on top of me, grinning like a banshee and whispers, "It's broken. If you don't get on it immediately, _whap_ , it folds back up."  
  
He lost five points for the broken Murphy bed, but damn, his kissing more than makes up for it - by a few thousand points. He's way ahead.  
  
He's pushing me down again and starts kissing my jaw and neck and, where appropriate, lapping and sucking. He's also holding my hands down and away, taking control, and I love it. But I have to ask something.  
  
"So, we're not going to talk? Explain?"  
  
He lifts his lips from my shoulder and smiles knowingly. "You've been unhappy, Jim?"  
  
I nod.  
  
"Senses on the blink?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"A grumpy bastard and missing me so much your teeth hurt?"  
  
Does this guy know me or what? I nod again.  
  
"Having wet dreams about me at the station?"  
  
I'm pretty sure my face is red now. No nod necessary.  
  
"Guess we've talked. Happy now?"  
  
What can I do, but nod again - and grin like a sap.  
  
He latches onto my shoulder again while I try to get a look at his home - and it ain't much. Only slightly better than the rat infested warehouse he inhabited before it blew up, and he moved in with me. And, damn it, he's working in a book store. My Blair Sandburg - Naomi's little prodigy - the man with an IQ in the upper stratosphere and he's working in a book store.  
  
In Vancouver.  
  
As much as I'm enjoying what he's doing to me - we need to talk, so I ask, "What about you, Chief, you've been feeling miserable?"  
  
There's no humor in my voice and he catches it. His head rises slowly and he frowns even as his eyes search my face. Finally, he makes a decision and says, "You have to be able to feel in order to be miserable."  
  
Before I know it, my hands are on either side of his face and I'm cupping that beautiful head, holding him so gently as I whisper, "I'm so sorry, Chief, so very sorry."  
  
He leans in and rests his forehead against mine. "I know, me too. so very sorry. I let you down and--"  
  
I can't let him finish, I just can't. We both screwed up so royally, but now we're here, together, and that's all that must matter.  
  
"We both blew it, but it's over now, Chief, and we've learned."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
I rest my lips against his temple and nod. "Oh, yeah, life is a great school, Chief."  
  
"So you admit I'm always right, then?"  
  
Damn, he's good.  
  
But so am I - which is why I just nod - again.  
  
"Good, good. You just remember that in the future."  
  
Then his mouth is on mine, our lips parting, tongues dipping in, playing the mating dance and he wins. He draws mine into his mouth and for the first time in three years - I turn up the dials while kissing.  
  
Crab puffs. Really good crab puffs. And - champagne. Really good champagne. And vegetables and some kind of dip and cheeses, and - and - Blair.  
  
Warm, wet, and wild. Peaches, raw sweet carrots, something tangy, his teeth, his tongue, and I sneak open my eyes because I need to see his face and he's beautiful and concentrating and he's pushing now, pushing me into the mattress and his tongue is half way down my throat as our bodies start to hump each other.  
  
Speed has become important because we both want nothing more between us - not Alex, not the past and certainly not clothing. Our efforts are quick and economical. Clothes go flying and then he's sliding down my body and I have to take a deep breath, I have to control the dials or I'll--  
  
"Let go, Jim, baby, I've got you, just let go."  
  
I - I can - do - that.  
  
His tongue is on my stomach, in my navel, floating across my skin, setting it on fire and it's both rough and velvet, pure velvet and then he's lower, and my dick is waving in front of his face and he smiles just before he takes one, long, slow, swipe….  
  
He is the devil incarnate.  
  
He's a saint.  
  
He's holding my dick with one hand and lapping at it and how many times have I seen him eating one of those waffle cones from the park? I'm a human waffle cone.  
  
I have to close my eyes - no, I have to keep them open. I have to watch him. I can't watch him. The pain is so good.  
  
I'm inside him, inside that mouth and he's doing it all, giving it all to me, and he's singing, or humming or something and what the hell _is_ that?  
  
Oh fuck. He's singing, "Auld Lang Syne."  
  
He's a little shit.  
  
But man, it's happening. I'm coming....  
  
***  
  
The year 2001 is about an hour away and, at the moment, we're enjoying a bowl of Raisin Bran together. It's all he has in the place. I offered him dinner at my hotel but he just gave me this look, so we fucked again. When the guy has a plan, it behooves me to listen.  
  
There's one spoonful left and at least two raisins in there. He's eyeballing them. And me.  
  
"You could have had lobster, Chief," I remind him smugly.  
  
"Had you instead. Beats lobster every time."  
  
Didn't I tell you he had an IQ in the upper stratosphere?  
  
"Okay, they're yours."  
  
He digs in and spoons the last few flakes and raisins into his mouth.  
  
The small heater is on but it's not warm enough for sitting at the small pull down table in our birthday suits. And yes, I said pull down table. I'm officially leery about entering the bathroom. God only knows what I'll have to pull down in there.  
  
Blair is wrapped in his blanket and I've slipped on my boxers and sweater. Still not warm enough but it will do until we get back into bed. Although - I'm seriously considering talking him into heading back to my hotel. In fact….  
  
"We have an hour before midnight. Why don't we climb into the Volvo and head over to the hotel? Warmth, champagne, good eats - warmth. What do you say?"  
  
He gets up and takes the bowl to the small sink where he quickly washes it before placing it carefully into the draining rack. Not easy while trying to hold the blanket around him Indian style.  
  
"No Volvo. Sold it."  
  
"You're kidding? You sold the Volvo?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"So what do we climb into now? What amazingly un-drivable classic did you buy this time?"  
  
"A taxi?"  
  
"You bought a taxi?"  
  
"No, we'd take a taxi to your hotel."  
  
I'm seriously missing something here. But it's right there, right in front of me now.  
  
He had to sell the Volvo.  
  
Now I really look around.  
  
It's not the best he could find - it's the only place he could afford. And he couldn't afford a car, not even one completely paid for which means he needed the money that selling a classic car like the Volvo would net him.  
  
"Blair, why aren't you at a university?"  
  
He shuffles over to the ratty couch by the window, drops down crosses his legs Indian style and shrugs.  
  
"Blair," I repeat, "why aren't you at another university?"  
  
"Not interested in pursuing anything, to be honest."  
  
I'm too far away from him. I move to the couch and sit beside him. I fix him with my best detective stare. It works so well, he laughs.  
  
"I don't think that look ever worked on me, man."  
  
"I know, but I thought it was worth a try. So save me further humiliation by just telling me the truth, okay?"  
  
"Look, you don't just change your dissertation subject, you know? Especially if you're me, with my history."  
  
"And what history would that be, Chief?"  
  
He looks at me as if I've been living on Pluto.  
  
"Jim, I believe in Sentinels."  
  
Well, duh. Doesn't everybody?  
  
"Of course you believe in Sentinels." Even to my ears - that sounded stupid. And I said it.  
  
"But no one else does, see? I've been bucking the system for years. I've been the weird one, the off-beat doctoral candidate. When I went to my advisor and told him there was no sentinel after all - well, everything everyone used to believe about me was then given credence."  
  
For the first time in three years - I do.  
  
A whiz kid that believed in Burton's theories and unproven claims of tribal guardians with heightened senses. A good, even great, anthropologist, but one with this little - chink. He believed in something that couldn't possibly exist, something that no one else even considered as being possible.  
  
No one except Sir Richard Burton; the explorer, not the actor.  
  
And when he denied me to his advisor, he gave up everything. He lost everything. Including his home.  
  
"Hey, man, don't look like that. I got what I wanted - I found a real sentinel, okay? For myself, I proved Burton right. That's enough."  
  
We're shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and I need more so I pull him closer, into my chest, a bit awkwardly, but he's now exactly where he belongs, where I knew he belonged and I'm holding tight.  
  
"Blair Sandburg, I love you."  
  
He's laughing into my sweater, and talking. "That's good because I'm fairly certain I'm pregnant now."  
  
I push him away and he immediately tucks a short, springy stray curl behind his ear. Then bats his eyelashes at me. And puckers his lips.  
  
"You dickwad. How do I know it's mine?"  
  
"Man, this is virgin territory. No one's touched this body in months. Living like a monk."  
  
"If you're pregnant, then I think you mean nun. Living like a nun - an unprotected nun."  
  
His hand moves under my sweater as he says, "You know what I think?"  
  
"No, what?"  
  
"I think it's my turn to get you pregnant."  
  
"Woo-hoo and hot dog!"  
  
We race back to the wall, pull the bed down and jump on. Somewhere along the way, the blanket was dropped and I have this inviting, naked body in my arms. And it's all male with not a nun in sight.  
  
***  
  
Five minutes after midnight and Blair is staring at me while I stare at him.  
He's wonderfully sweaty, damp hair stuck to his forehead and he's holding impossibly still - for me. He's letting me savor this moment of bliss, this moment of Blair Sandburg buried deep inside Jim Ellison.  
  
I never even considered the possibility that I'd be able to feel Blair's heart beating via his dick buried in my ass. But I can. And I savor it. His heart - in stereo.  
  
God, there is just no way to explain the ecstasy of seeing the throbbing vein in his throat, hear his heart beating in his chest _and_ feel it in my ass. I wouldn't give this up for anything and I wouldn't dial it down for anything.  
  
I'm no longer afraid. This is the perk of being a sentinel. Too bad Burton didn't have a clue.  
  
Okay, Blair needs to move because I need him to.  
  
"Go deep, do it, Blair," I manage to gasp out.  
  
His heart is in my hands now, as he moves in and out, slowly, deeply, religiously. Deeper, longer, in and out, his eyes glued to mine, his lips dipping in for a touch, a kiss, a sweet moan, and then we both speed up and I'm almost rocking with the movement of his body; the synchronization timeless.  
  
I start to pump my own dick but he stops me, wraps his hand around it and slides in perfect harmony with his body - and for me - it's over. I come almost ferociously, his name dragged out of me. He makes two, three more deep humps and he's coming and I try to feel that too but I'm floating too high as his body drops down onto mine.  
  
***  
  
Sweat, semen, tangled limbs and silky chest hair plastered to my chest. I feel great. He's awake and his fingers are making small circles on my left arm. I can feel his smile against my skin. My right hand is buried in his short, thick curls while my left hand rests possessively on his ass.  
  
I'm in the state of euphoria with no wish to do any traveling in the near future. This is one state I can get behind. I squeeze his right butt cheek and the grin widens.  
  
"Happy New Year, Chief."  
  
"Right back at you."  
  
"So, got any plans for 2001?"  
  
There's this infinitesimal pause as he stops tracing things on my chest. I know he's holding his breath - but he finally exhales and says in a rush, "i'mthinkingoftheacademyjim."  
  
I'm speechless. Totally and completely speechless. I think my goddamned heart just stopped beating and I'm having a fucking heart attack.  
  
"Oh, for crying out loud, breathe, Jim."  
  
Good idea. I exhale, long and hard. Okay, sinus rhythm is normal, blood pressure, down. But jeez, what do you expect? In a rush of words, in one night, less than a few hours, I've been given everything I ever wanted. I have Blair in bed, and he's talking about being a cop. A cop. My real partner.  
  
Going for cool, I simply say, "The Academy, huh?"  
  
He nods, warily.  
  
"Would that be the Cascade Police Academy? Or some other academy?"  
  
"West Point - you jerk."  
  
"Ah. West Point."  
  
I start drumming my fingers on his ass.  
  
"So. The Academy, huh?"  
  
"Jim, come on, spill. What do you think?"  
  
I wrap my fingers around his short curls in order to bring his head up. His eyes are big and round and I can't describe the color, not and do it justice. "I think I'm happier than I've ever been in my life. That's what I think."  
  
"Oh, okay then."  
  
He settles back down and I know I'm grinning like a loon.  
  
"So, it's settled. On Tuesday, I'll give my notice to Jeffrey and then I'm off to West Point." Then he wiggles against me - and adds mischievously, "I do so love all those men in uniform."  
  
The sound of the flat of my hand hitting the soft, pale flesh of his ass rings in the New Year. His loud OW is a perfect counterpoint.  
  
***  
  
"No Simon, it isn't still foggy. But I did work over a holiday and I'm asking for a few days."  
  
It's New Year's Day, the big game starts in twenty minutes and I'm on the couch in my hotel room, phone stuck to my ear as I listen to Simon giving me an earful. I let him wind down as I watch Blair, who's standing at the window of my room, back straight, almost ramrod stiff. He's waiting for the ax to fall.  
  
"Look Simon, I ran into an old buddy and I'd like to spend some time with him. Well, as a matter of fact, yes, you do know him. Used to be my partner. You remember the little short guy? With the long hair? Blair Sandburg?"  
  
I have to hold the phone away from my ear.  
  
Simon finally runs out of steam and questions. When I'm positive of the silence, I put the phone back to my ear. "Yes he's fine. A little too thin and he cut his hair but overall, he's fine. What? Well, I bought the book from him. Yes, that's what I said. He's been working in a book store. No, that isn't what he wants to do, and now that you mention it, he does have certain - aspirations. He's kind of interested in attending the Academy."  
  
It isn't possible for Blair's back to become any stiffer - yet it does. How little he knows Simon. How little Simon let him see of his true feelings.  
  
"No sir, West Point." That brings a suppressed chuckle out of my man.  
  
"Yes sir, the police academy. Yes sir, the _Cascade_ Police Academy. Yes, I'll tell him in exactly those words. No problem, Simon, and Happy New Year to you too. What? Oh, no, it looks good. Well, not really that short, just kind of, well, just below his ears. Right. Yes, I agree. I'll suggest that. Right, see you in a few." I hang up and wait. Blair doesn't turn around.  
  
"Simon says Happy New Year, you bum."  
  
Which brings only a slight chuckle. I really should put him out of his misery.  
  
"He also says you'd better let your hair grow out. He really needs a weird looking detective in Major Crime and your long hair balances out my thinning hair. Besides, it'll make going undercover that much easier."  
  
That gets him to turn around - and I'm surprised by the expression on his face. He looks like a small, lost child who found his father. In a halting voice, he asks, "He's - really okay with it?"  
  
"Yes, Blair, Simon is really okay with it. He'll have everything arranged by the time we get home. He also figures that the time you spent as my unofficial partner will count - and shave of several weeks of classes. You'll probably only need about three weeks - tops. Firearms, self defense, that stuff. You already know the laws like the back of your hand, not to mention procedure - and how not to follow it. You'll be a shoe-in and, eventually, my official partner."  
  
"No way!"  
  
I go to his side and gaze down into his surprised face.  
  
"Yes," I say softly, "way."  
  
He looks down for a moment, probably to hide what he's really feeling; the emotion of it all, but eventually he looks up with suspicious eyes and asks, "And who were you calling 'the little short guy'?"  
  
I think I'll just kiss him senseless, then we'll watch the game.  
  
 _"And here's a hand, my trusty friend, And gie's a hand o' thine; We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne."_  
  
The End


End file.
